


such a smile to make it all worthwhile

by shatteredhourglass



Series: Vampire!Clint AU [3]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood But No Violence? Are You SURE This Is A ShatteredHourglass Fic?, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky: Nips Out, But Very Much Consensual, Clint: Businesswear, Deaf Clint Barton, Established Relationship, Human/Vampire Relationship, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Top Clint Barton, Vampire Bites, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 22:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19305211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: “She’s in an underground vampire club,” Sam says when it’s clear Steve doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. “Only people who can come and go are the undead.”





	such a smile to make it all worthwhile

**Author's Note:**

> me @ myself: it's about goddamn time we extended this au

“You’re really not bothered by this whole vampire thing, are you?”  
  
Bucky raises his eyes from the newspaper he’s currently reading to raise an eyebrow at Tony. Clint’s sprawled in his lap in a messy, gorgeous heap- he’d run out of energy shortly after the sun came up, but still had to be coaxed into a nap. Bucky’s doing his best to try and get Clint out of that ‘don’t-do-anything-stereotypically-vampiric’ headspace, and in some respects, it’s working. Bucky’s quite happy to have a lump of sleepy, satisfied vampire on him in the mornings while he reads, and Clint likes leeching off of his body heat, even if he won’t admit it. It’s beneficial for both of them in that way.  
  
Bucky folds the newspaper, balances it along the curve of Clint’s spine and lets out an exasperated huff. “Do I look like I’m bothered?”  
  
Tony’s eyes flick down to his neck, which- yeah, okay, there might be a few new bruises, but it’s whatever. It’s refreshing, having marks for fun rather than because of fights. Although he might need to invest in a scarf if he decides to go out in public anytime soon. Maybe Natasha knows how to cover it up with makeup or something.  
  
“It’s not like he’s any more dangerous than anyone else,” Bucky continues, setting his left hand on Clint’s head, gently ruffling the blond hair under his metal fingers. Clint makes that sound that’s strikingly similar to a purr and snuggles in closer, and Bucky can’t help the smug smile that rises to his face. Tony continues to look unimpressed.  
  
“He’s _literally_ a bloodsucking creature of the night,” Tony says. “Edward Cullen there is not a cat, no matter how much he might make eyes at you.”  
  
“He’s not a shitty Twilight vampire,” Bucky grumbles, because yeah, he’d read those books. So what, he’d wanted more information to work with.  
  
Tony looks at him thoughtfully, then down at Clint. “You think if I threw holy water on him it’d burn?”  
  
“Try it and see where it gets you, Stark,” Bucky replies easily.  
  
Tony seems to realize he’s under threat from a man who made Natasha Romanov nervous and backs off, grumbling to himself as he wanders to the communal kitchen. Bucky stays where he is, brushing his fingers over the line of Clint’s jaw and down his neck. He finds the scars from Clint’s bite and skirts around the edge and makes his way to Clint’s wool-covered shoulder, sees the side of a lazy smile on Clint’s face. He’s not going to touch that without permission, not with the way Clint already feels about his condition.  
  
That story hasn’t been told yet- every now and then he’ll get a little anecdote about _this_ and _that_ vampire business that happened in the past, but he won’t bring up how Clint became a vampire and Clint probably wouldn’t tell him, even if he did. It doesn’t really matter, though. Bucky likes him so much either way, and it’s not like his past isn’t full of dark things too. No matter what Stark might say about it.  
  
Steve comes in through the hallway then, Sam following, and Bucky takes one look at the grim expression on his face and feels a distinct sense of dread. He’d left earlier to meet Nicholas Fury at whatever hideout he’d decided on this week, which wasn’t surprising in of itself, but Fury tended to ask them for things they didn’t want to give. Steve’s in his civilian clothes though, so it isn’t an emergency. Just something unpleasant. He’s got a file tucked under his arm and he sighs as he sits down in the armchair opposite them.  
  
“Somethin’ happen?”  
  
“Not yet it hasn’t,” Sam says at the same time Steve says “no.”  
  
They exchange a look that has far more weight to it than Bucky’s comfortable with and he shifts, accidentally nudging Clint off of his knee. He doesn’t fall off, just twists so he lands on his feet and then sits back down, mostly on Bucky’s lap again but awake this time, blinking sleepily. He still looks so soft and warm, something indescribably precious about him like this and Bucky’s heart squeezes in his chest suddenly. It’s a feeling he should be used to by now but isn’t, when he gets around Clint.  
  
“I had a dream we got a dog,” Clint mumbles against his cheek as he turns and leans in for a kiss. “Can we get a dog?”  
  
“We can’t leave a dog in the compound when we go on missions,” Bucky reasons, but he still feels like a bastard for saying no. “They need constant attention. You know, like you.”  
  
“I guess,” Clint replies, pressing another kiss to his jaw before he notices they have company and faces the right way. “Oh, hey, Steve. You look like someone kidnapped your wife.”

“Sam’s right there, actually,” Bucky says, and Clint snickers.  
  
Sam doesn’t come back with a smart retort and Steve just looks vaguely disappointed over his frown, which is what tips Bucky off. Something’s _definitely_ gone wrong, then. Or… is going to go wrong, based on what Sam said. He shifts Clint a little so he can look at them better over the curve of his shoulder, give Steve that vaguely threatening look that tells him to just spit it out and get it over with. Clint pats at his side, finds Bucky’s flesh hand and links their fingers together. He seems happy, at least.  
  
“Fury’s found a lead for the guy he’s chasing,” Steve says reluctantly. “Mister Sinister. If we can get ahold of a woman called Cara and give her to Fury for protection she’ll give us the intel we need.”  
  
They’re all well-aware of Fury’s obsession with this guy, although they’ve never seen or heard anything about him. Bucky thinks that _Mister Sinister_  is a stupid name and doesn’t really want anything to do with it, but he respects that Fury is doing his best with what he has. And he has a fucking terrible habit of following Steve into bad situations, and Steve actually listens to Fury. Bucky lets out a long-suffering sigh and thinks about his plan to take Clint to the movies. So much for that.  
  
“Where are we going?”  
  
“That’s the problem,” Steve says. “This woman, she’s…”  
  
“She’s in an underground vampire club,” Sam says when it’s clear Steve doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. “Only people who can come and go are the undead.”  
  
Clint freezes and even though Bucky can’t see the expression on his face, he can only imagine it, and his imagination doesn’t have a good feeling about it.  
  
“No. _No_ , fuck Fury,” Bucky snaps. “Can’t someone fake it, put on some toy fangs and slow down their heartbeat or some shit?”  
  
Steve’s face is sympathetic. “They’re real vampires. They’re going to know if we fake it.”  
  
“Where are the other fuckin’ vampires? If Fury’s got all the intel and bullshit, surely he can find himself an agent who’s willing,” Bucky says sharply, and he’s taking it out on Steve which isn’t fair but Clint’s finally starting to be comfortable with people knowing he’s a vampire. This isn’t going to help him, it’s going to take him back a step. He can almost feel the discomfort coming from Clint like it’s taken physical form in a cloud around him. Judging from the way Sam’s cringing a little, it’s already going sour.  
  
“There’s no other vampires,” Steve says, voice laced with regret. “We even tried to hire an outside agent who could go in, but there’s no one.”  
  
“No one but _me_ , you mean,” Clint mutters, and it comes out bitter.  
  
“I’m sorry, Clint,” Steve answers.  
  
Clint may be the one with fangs but Bucky’s _this_ close to tearing out Fury’s throat.  
  
“If we’d had any other choice we’d take it,” Steve says. “But we need the girl.”  
  
“That doesn’t make it any goddamn better,” Bucky growls.  
  
Steve at least has the common sense to look guilty.  
  
  
  
  
  
He finds Clint later in their room (it’s technically just Clint’s room, but he sleeps there, so.)  
  
Bucky looks down at the open file and then up to Clint’s face. It’s not quite as drastic as he’d feared; the expression on his face is more displeasure than disaster and it helps the way Bucky’s stomach has been churning. Clint doesn’t look much like a terrifying creature of the night at the moment; just tired and exasperated, the shadows under his eyes more of an artful smudge that could’ve been on purpose on a different person. Bucky sits down with his back against the headboard and Clint sighs before flopping down with his cheek against Bucky’s denim-clad knee. The telltale purple plastic behind his ears isn’t there, and Bucky makes sure Clint’s watching his face before he speaks.  
  
“You’re going to do it, then?”  
  
“I can’t say no to Captain America,” Clint grumbles, slightly too loud. “And Fury knows where I live.”  
  
 _Are you really okay with this?_ Bucky signs so it’s easier for his- ( _Boyfriend_? Lover? Date? They’ve never talked about what their relationship is actually supposed to be called. Mostly because neither of them care)- to understand instead of trying to watch his lips in the glow of the bedside lamp.  
  
“I don’t like it, but I have to do it. ‘s gotta be me,” Clint says, resigned. “Steve’s right, they’d spot an impostor from a mile away. These kind of places are run by the real ancient assholes, the ones who’ve spent so long avoiding humans they’ve forgotten they _were_ human once.”  
  
 _That makes it sound like you’ve been to one of ‘these places’ before _,__  Bucky answers, and Clint snorts.  
  
“Yeah, got dragged into a place once. I hated it. The way that th- they aren’t right,” he explains. “Fucking creepy.”  
  
 _Not like you?  
  
_ Clint laughs. “No, not like me. I’m pretty weird by vampire standards.”  
  
 _You’re pretty good by human standards,_ Bucky reasons, gets a snort.  
  
He still looks troubled and Bucky’s a little desperate to dissolve that look, for both himself and for Clint, so he nudges Clint up to face level and rolls them over. The concern on his face quickly dissolves into something _much_ better when Bucky gets his pants down and starts sucking him off slow and hard, reveling in the way he arches off the bed and makes those soft gasps that makes heat curl in Bucky’s stomach.  
  
  
  
  
  
“Alright,” Hill says. “This is the photos we have of the outside of the place. It’s in Brooklyn, and the front door has a symbol on it we’ve connected with a few of the vampires.”  
  
Bucky glances down at the pictures of the club and then looks back up at Hill. She’s been sent in Fury’s place to brief them all- she gets sent in Fury’s place a lot, nowadays. Bucky thinks she could probably take over the entire operation and they wouldn’t be at a disadvantage. Clint leans over to pull a photo of a blonde woman with a fur coat standing in front of the marked door, tilts his head like he’s trying to place her. Natasha, sitting next to him, shifts closer to inspect it as well.  
  
“That’s been there since at least the fifties,” Clint says thoughtfully. “I think.”  
  
“Hold up,” Tony interrupts. “Barton, your file says you were born in ‘64. You’re telling me that’s bullshit?”  
  
“Well, yeah. Duh,” Clint answers, then grimaces. “Natasha faked hers too! Don’t look at me like that, Hill.”  
  
Bucky squashes down his own surprise at the admittance. Sure, he’d known that vampires didn’t really age the same way humans did, but Clint still looked like he was in his thirties at the most. Not to mention he acted like a twenty year old half of the time. Now he’s looking back on it, though, he remembers hints, little anecdotes that never quite lined up to a timeline that makes sense. He realizes Clint’s spent at least twice as long being a _person_ than he has, even as a vampire. The idea that Clint’s been wandering around the earth for more than sixty years leaves him a little bewildered.  
  
“Am I the _only_ one that ages in this team?” Tony’s got his head in his hands now and the whining comes out muffled but still audible. “I’m going to be old and grey and you’ll all look like supermodels. I’m never taking my helmet off again.”  
  
“You look fine, Tony,” Steve says, looking exasperated.  
  
“In any case,” Hill cuts in with a withering stare at Tony, “we’ve determined that Agent Barton shouldn’t have any problem infiltrating the base and escorting the girl out. Apparently the owners see her and the other humans that stay there as trivial objects that they lend out to their kind.”  
  
Clint cringes visibly. Both Bucky and Natasha put their hand on his knee, Natasha’s on his right and Bucky’s on his left, which results in a snort from Tony and a bemused smirk from Sam. Bucky starts glaring because it sucks, okay, it sucks a _lot_ , and he’ll fight Stark on a good day. (He’d also fight Sam but he’s decided it’s not worth the snarky remarks.)  
  
“We’ve seen some of the patrons go in with a human on their arm,” Hill says. “Personal… escorts.”  
  
“Their pets,” Clint answers grimly.  
  
“...right. You can take another operative in that position, yes?”  
  
“I’ll go,” Bucky and Natasha say at the same time.  
  
They lock eyes over Clint’s back. Natasha’s got fire in the green of her eyes but Bucky’s been dealing with the god-tier stubbornness of Steven Grant Rogers for his entire life and he’s not particularly intimidated. She frowns at him. He narrows his eyes at her. Clint sighs into his hands and doesn’t comment on the brewing storm he’s found himself in the middle of.  
  
“I’m better at undercover work,” Natasha says.  
  
“We’ve been partnered for missions for the last six months,” Bucky argues.  
  
“I don’t have a metal arm,” she retorts. “Less conspicuous.”  
  
“I’m taking Bucky,” Clint interrupts.  
  
Natasha looks taken aback and Bucky watches as he turns to her, his fingers linking with hers. Clint lifts their joined hands and turns them over so he can touch a pair of barely-there white scars on her wrist. “They’ll expect bitemarks,” Clint says to her quietly. “Bruises. A bond. I’m not going to do that to you. I know you too well, Tasha.”  
  
Natasha looks down at the scars on her arm as well and then lets out a sigh. “Fine, then. Take Barnes.”  
  
“I’ll look after him,” Bucky says.  
  
Clint snorts. “Actually, I’ll be looking after __you__. Vampire den, remember?”  
  
Bucky ignores the way his insides twist at the idea of Clint looking after him and tries to concentrate on the file Hill hands to him.  
  
  
  
  
  
“Do we actually need to dress up in this stuff?”  
  
“Yeah,” Clint answers from the bedroom. “We need to blend in so no one notices us there. Natasha tried to get you something that wasn't lingerie. Sucks, I know. ‘m sorry.”  
  
“I chose to come with you,” Bucky says, but he’s still dubious when the bathroom door opens behind him and he’s still trying to get the strip of black fabric to cover his nipples.  
  
Natasha had picked it- something that would show off as much skin as possible without revealing his arm to people who would recognize it. A shirt with sleeves that reach his wrists but doesn’t reach his chest whatsoever is her solution, apparently. He lets go of the cloth when he catches Clint’s eye in the mirror, lets it bounce back up again. The gloves to go with it are soft grey and thin enough that they hopefully won’t hamper his dexterity.  
  
Clint’s answer to ‘Formal Vampire Fashion’ has resulted in a combination of black trousers, black shows, a half-buttoned black dress shirt and a sharp grey coat that ends around his knees. It’s so drastically _different_ from both his tac gear and his usual jeans and old t-shirt that Bucky forgets how to breathe for a second. At least his hair’s still the same artful blond mess, and he hooks his chin over Bucky’s shoulder to run his fingers over Bucky’s exposed chest delightedly, smirk at him in the mirror.  
  
“Don’t like the situation, but this is a nice perk ,” he murmurs in Bucky’s ear.  
  
His hands drift down to Bucky’s hips at the same time Clint’s blunt human teeth nip at his neck, where there’s fresh bruising already standing out in impressive colours. He avoids playing with the thin leather collar and Bucky’s grateful, but he still shivers before he actively thinks about why that’s a bad idea and feels Clint’s grin on his skin.  
  
“We can’t blow off Hill to fuck in the bathroom,” he says, trying to come off as stern.  
  
Clint snickers. “We _could_.”  
  
“We could, but we’re not going to,” Bucky says, a little breathless as Clint’s fingertips dip under the admittedly low waistband of his pants. He doesn’t make any move to do anything else, though, and Bucky’s relieved because he doesn’t have enough self-control to make Clint actually stop. Especially when they’re dressed like this and he can see the expression on his own face. It’s almost too much already.  
  
“I take it you like the gear,” Clint observes, the delight clear in his voice.  
  
“I like _you_ ,” Bucky corrects. It comes out softer that he’d intended and unbearably fond, and he watches Clint’s face flush as much as he’s able.  
  
“Aw, Barnes, no,” he whines against a particularly prominent mark. “No feelings before I take you in a fucking terrifying vampire nest.”  
  
Bucky has about eight different knives tucked away in his ridiculous outfit, which is impressive considering he’s not even allowed to wear shoes. His arm is a weapon too- hell, Bucky himself is a weapon, the same way Natasha and Clint were. But he finds himself not particularly worried about the other vampires because of the bone-deep knowledge that Clint’s not going to _let_ anything happen to him. The thought catches him by surprise, because it’s one thing to like a man and it’s a whole other situation to be perfectly fine with letting him take control, especially with Bucky’s history.  
  
But as Clint presses a kiss to another blooming bruise, he can’t find himself regretting it in the slightest.  
  
  
  
  
  
“Alright,” Clint says, clasping his hands together.  
  
It seems like he’s steeling himself, trying to pull on a guise that’s more than just his business outfit, holds himself up a little straighter. Clint is one of those people who’s actually taller than Bucky when he’s not slouching, and it’s pretty noticeable now they’re walking along the abandoned street and Clint’s dressed the way he is. Bucky wonders if there’s such a thing as a _good_ kind of intimidating. If there is, he's achieved it. Clint’s still fiddling with his hands like he’s nervous, and Bucky reaches for his elbow to stop him.  
  
“You okay?”  
  
Clint’s eyes look almost luminous in the light when he turns to Bucky a few meters from the vampire club. Bucky’s struck by how ethereal he looks in the moonlight, a creature formed of darkness but full of light. It’s then that he notices the inside of Clint’s coat is lined with purple and he has to refrain from laughing, because it’s so very _Clint_ of him to edge in some purple somewhere.  
  
“This is probably going to suck for you,” he says. “I’m going to have to act how they expect me to act, which isn’t… nice.”  
  
“It’s just a mission,” Bucky says, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m not going to take it to heart or anything. You're not going to call me names or anything?”  
  
“No. Still,” Clint says.  
  
“I trust you,” Bucky adds, which seems to be the right thing to say based on the pleased little smile he gets. They’ve come a long way from ‘ _I’m dangerous, Bucky, you shouldn’t be here_ ’ in the last few months and he’s glad. Because he does trust Clint, and he thinks that maybe Clint needs to trust himself a little more.  
  
“Okay,” Clint mutters, more to himself, and then sighs. “You’re going to have to walk behind me. Don’t talk to the vampires, no matter what they say to you. I tell you to do something, you do it. You’re supposed to be a hapless little mortal enamoured by my inner darkness or whatever. Try not to give everyone the murder stare.”  
  
“I don’t have a murder stare,” Bucky grumbles.  
  
“Sure you don’t,” Clint says dryly. “Come on.”  
  
  
  
  
  
They don’t even get a sideways look at the door, and Bucky’s not sure whether it’s because vampires can somehow sense one another or if it’s just the general aura of “don’t fuck with me” Clint is currently exuding. Bucky’s job here is to just stay silent and follow orders, which is something that would piss him off normally- with Clint, it’s okay.  
  
The place is lit by low-hanging lamps that leave everything in shadow. The faces of the people seem misty and indistinct, blurring when Bucky takes his eyes off of the elegant planes of Clint’s back. He’s sharply aware that they’re _not_ human- maybe they’d look human in the street, but here there’s a sharp glint to their smiles, their movements a little too fluid for the average person. Some of them are watching him, something hungry and dangerous in their stares. All of a sudden he realizes he’s _vulnerable_ here, unsafe in a way he hasn’t been for a very long time.  
  
Clint heads for a staircase that leads downstairs and he follows, only to be blocked by a woman with white-blonde hair and a fur coat. The one they’d been shown a photo of, Bucky recognizes. She looks far more inhuman in the flesh. She’s got a young boy with her- one who can’t be more than twenty, barely covered by the lace underwear he’s got on. Bucky is relentlessly thankful for the outfit Natasha had picked out.  
  
“Greetings, brother,” she says to Clint.  
  
“Greetings,” Clint returns, tipping his chin at her. “Good hunting?”  
  
“Oh, excellent,” she purrs. “Isn’t he beautiful? I’m quite proud. And yet they never seem to last long enough for me. A few days, perhaps.”  
  
Her eyes flick over to Bucky, gaze dragging down his chest like a physical weight. He feels cold, for some reason, resists the urge to grab her by the throat or (even worse) hide behind Clint. It’s understandable now, what Clint had said about the other vampires, because Hydra had looked at him like a weapon but these people look at him like he’s an _object_ , something to be used for entertainment and thrown away when they get bored.  
  
“You don’t put yours on a leash?” The woman’s black lips curve up in amusement as she lifts one delicate hand to show off the brown leather curled around her fingers. “Curious. Don’t tell me you’re one of those soft newborns they keep bringing in, always talking about ‘mortal rights.’”  
  
Bucky feels alarm spike up his spine, but Clint just gives her a smile that’s half amusement and half disdain. “You don’t train your pets well enough, so you need a leash? Shame.”  
  
She goes as red as a vampire is able and starts stuttering out a reply, and Clint just rolls his eyes and walks past her. Bucky stares for a moment in shock and then has to jog a little to catch up with him. The whole world has a history of underestimating Clint Barton and Bucky’s done it again. It’s not just the outfit, it’s the way he speaks, the authority in his eyes. He’s _good_ at this. Bucky finds himself wondering exactly how old Clint actually is, to undermine a woman like that and get away with it.  
  
They get to the bottom of the staircase and there’s no signs explaining where to go but Clint moves unerringly anyway. Bucky follows him to a steel door that looks like it could keep out even him, watches Clint push at it and then swear quietly to himself.  
  
“Borrowing starts in an hour,” a voice grumbles at them.  
  
“Can’t you make an exception?”  
  
“No,” the voice says petulantly, and the tone is strangely familiar.  
  
Clint turns to Bucky and gives him a weary look. “Looks like we’re going upstairs for a while.”  
  
  
  
  
  
They hike up the stairs again and Clint makes a beeline for a table that’s unoccupied. Bucky goes to follow him, desperate to get his back to a wall so he can feel at least a little safer. Instead, his path is blocked by the woman with the blonde hair, apparently recovered from her earlier setback. She plants a cold hand on his bare chest, the barest hint of sharp nails grazing his skin. Bucky stops, because he can’t go with his gut instinct and punch her through a wall. It makes his skin crawl with discomfort, and he's sure it shows based on her expression.  
  
“Hello, darling,” she says, the look in her eyes predatory. “How about you come with me for a little while? I do find your physique quite appealing, although you could do with a different outfit.”  
  
Bucky’s retort gets lodged in his throat- it’s not a polite one, and he can’t come up with anything that won’t immediately alert them to the fact he’s not one of their mindless pets.  
  
“It’ll be so much _fun_ , my darling,” her eyes are on his throat and ice runs cold in Bucky’s veins.  
  
“Excuse me,” Clint cuts in, stepping in-between them. The hand is pushed away from his chest and returned to the woman easily, and blue eyes glance back at him with a hint of worry before he’s physically blocking Bucky from the vampire. It’s more comforting than it probably should be, and Bucky’s close enough that he can close his eyes briefly and breathe in Clint’s scent.  
  
“Come on now,” she’s saying. “Such a pretty prize you have there, it’d be a shame to keep it all to yourself.”  
  
“I’m not in the habit of sharing,” Clint says, and while it’s said calmly there’s so much _threat_ in his voice Bucky would be scared if it wasn’t in his favour.  
  
“Now, now, is that any way to treat an ancient?”  
  
“He’s _mine_ ,” Clint snarls, the danger bleeding through in the way his fists clench slightly. “Come on.”  
  
He doesn’t look back at Bucky again but instead stalks down a hallway to their left. Bucky glances at the woman, who’s looking significantly more startled than she had before, and follows without a word.  
  
He finds himself in a sparsely-decorated bathroom. There’s a mirror up against one side and a few sinks, along with various pieces of equipment he recognizes as being used to remove primarily bloodstains. There’s no toilets, just a shower in the corner opposite the sinks. He supposes it’s used for less than savoury encounters rather than cleanliness, but he flicks the lock on the door anyway. God, he hates them, they're awful and Clint's absolutely right. At least no one can call him an 'it' in this bathroom.  
  
Clint’s bracing his hands against the sink, back to Bucky. Bucky isn’t particularly concerned until he realizes the stone of the bench is cracking underneath his fingers. He approaches slowly, rests his fingers on Clint’s back.  
  
“Clint?”  
  
“She _touched_ you,” he snarls. The cracking noises get louder.  
  
“ _Clint_ ,” Bucky tries again, worried. “Clint, I’m okay. She didn’t do anythin’ except creep me out.”  
  
Clint turns around this time, but his eyes are wild as he scans up and down Bucky’s body, presses shaking fingers to Bucky’s stomach and then up to his chest. Making _sure_ he hadn’t been touched. It’s almost frantic, the way he’s looking, and when his fingers skate up to Bucky’s jaw he grabs Clint’s fingers, holds onto them. It stops Clint long enough for Bucky to see the sluggish trail of blood where he’s bitten into his own lip, a storm visible in his eyes.  
  
“I’m okay,” he repeats, and Clint seems to hear him this time, letting out a sigh and slumping against the sink. His fingers stay on Bucky’s skin though, pressed against his face like Clint’s worried he’ll slip away otherwise. His stare burns through Bucky like a wildfire, like Clint’s stripping down all layers of himself until he finds what he’s looking for.  
  
“They don’t get to touch you,” Clint says, low and deadly.  
  
A shiver runs through Bucky that starts right down at the base of his spine and winds right up to his frazzled brain. He’s barely aware he’s done it, just reacting to the raw _danger_ in Clint’s voice, taking a step closer so they’re pressed together. Clint’s fingertips are still dragging against his skin, his grip getting a little firmer when Bucky braces his own hands on the counter, penning him in.  
  
They stare at each other and then the fingers are moving down to press down on a bruise on his neck that hasn’t quite faded. His sharp intake of breath doesn’t go unnoticed, and they’re so close Bucky can see the way Clint’s pupils dilate in sharp clarity.  
  
“What about you,” he manages. “You get to touch me?”  
  
He blinks and suddenly he’s pinned up against the wall next to the sinks, his wrists pressed into the tiles and his nose brushing the tiles. He _forgets_ how much Clint tends to hold back in everyday life, his guise of being perfectly human eradicated by the way he’s just pushing Bucky into whatever position he wants. It doesn’t even look like he’s trying- not that Bucky’s making any attempt to get away, though, pressing his cheek into the cold surface of the wall. His breath is coming in short, quick bursts as Clint’s teeth graze his jaw, the surge of _want_ hitting him hard.  
  
When they’d done this the first time it had been to save Clint’s _life_ and this feels trivial in comparison but good god, does he want it. Clint nips him, not enough to draw blood but enough to make Bucky jump a little from the sting.  
  
“Want to absolutely ruin you for anyone else,” Clint says roughly, more to himself than to Bucky, as one hand starts fiddling with the zipper on Bucky’s leather pants. “Make it so you go out in the street and all you can think about is my hands on you.”  
  
“Fuck,” Bucky says, because it’s hard to string a sentence together when there’s a hand on your dick, stroking firm and making pleasure spark up your body. “Already do, Clint, _for fuck’s sake_.”  
  
He’s keeping his hands where Clint pressed them, nails and metal scraping against the tiles when his pants are shoved halfway down his thighs. If anyone asks later he does not make a noise suspiciously close to a whine when Clint steps back, but the complaint rising up his throat is cut off by the sound of a packet being ripped open. He’s about to turn around and question it, but then Clint’s hands are on him again and his fingers are slick and wet.  
  
Where the fuck did he get lube from?  
  
The first finger presses into him and he pushes back into it automatically. He feels like he’s going to choke on how much he wants Clint in him right now, frantic and needy to a point where he’d be embarrassed if he had enough self-awareness for it. His brain keeps replaying the words thrown at that woman like a broken, _he’s mine_ , because it’s true, isn’t it? Bucky would lay himself out on the dinner table naked if Clint wanted it.  
  
Fangs scrape his neck and he chokes out a quiet “please” before Clint’s biting him and his vision goes clouded through the rush of pain that shoots right through to pleasure. Distantly, he’s aware of the firm thrusts of Clint’s fingers in him and it’s good but he has to close his eyes against the drag of Clint’s mouth on his skin, warm and wet with his own blood.  
  
“Look so pretty for me like this,” Clint says against his neck, and it sounds soft and reverent. Like he can’t quite believe this is real. Bucky doesn’t think there’s anything that feels quite as real as this, even as he tilts his head so Clint can run his tongue up the sluggish trail of blood down his neck. He feels the blunt press of Clint’s dick against his hole, sucks in an overwhelmed breath.  
  
“God, look at you,” Clint mutters as he pushes in, splaying one hand against Bucky’s bare back to keep him still as he does. Bucky just arches his back so he can press back against Clint, making a choked noise as it lights up nerves in all the right places. “You know what you look like, Barnes? All easy for me like this, fucking hell, if I had a heartbeat I’d flatline.”  
  
Bucky tries to snort at the comment but Clint pulls back and then thrusts hard and whatever retort he’d had slides away in the rush of _oh god please more_. Fingers wrap around his dick again and he pants against the cold tiles, caught between that and the solid line of Clint’s body. This might be cause for panic in a normal situation, if it wasn’t this particular man fucking into him like he’s trying to leave a lasting mark.  
  
Truthfully, Clint’s already left a mark on him where it matters.  
  
“Open your eyes,” Clint says, and he does after a second. “  
  
He’s presented with the mirror against the other wall and the mind-blowing sight of Clint fucking into him. Clint’s face is filled with something a little darker than delight as he licks up Bucky’s neck, maintaining eye contact as he does.  
  
Bucky shudders under his hands and fights against the urge to shut his eyes against the burn of pleasure up his spine. He makes the mistake of looking at his own reflection and it’s a fucking mess. His face is flushed and he’s biting into his lip hard enough that it’s red with abuse, and his expression is completely gone. It’s too much, that Clint manages to do this to him, and when the sharp bolt of pain from Clint’s teeth comes he whites out completely, only faintly aware he’s shaking through an orgasm as well.  
  
“Fuck, Bucky,” Clint says against his hair, rough and a little wild-sounding. “God, yeah, look at that. Mine.”  
  
He pulls back and Bucky breathes through it, ignores the smug voice in his head when he feels cum on his thigh.  
  
“Fuck,” he says, a little raw and shellshocked by how hard he just came. “Well, you proved your point there, Clint, hell.”  
  
There’s a moment of contemplative silence and Bucky takes the reprieve to close his eyes for a second and try to catch his breath. Clint’s fingers land on him again, pressing against the line of his spine briefly before he touches the new bite marks. Bucky has to brace himself against the wall a little more at the muted throb of pain. One is still bleeding a little, based on the wetness that gets smeared on his skin. Clint presses a little harder and Bucky makes a barely audible noise, and then Clint’s hands disappear.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “Shit, fuck, I’m so sorry.”  
  
Bucky opens his eyes.“I- what?”  
  
“All this shit about the vampires treating humans like they belong to them, all the times I’ve talked shit about it, and- fuck.” He laughs, a little hollow. “I’m just as bad, right? Fucking hell. You deserve better than that, after everything.”  
  
Bucky stamps down the spark of indignation at that comment- like he’d be here if he didn’t want to be- and turns around so he can frown at Clint. “Did I sound like I wasn’t enjoying it? You’re an idiot. There’s a huge difference between you and them.”  
  
“What, because I haven’t used a leash?”  
  
“Because you _care_ ,” Bucky says, frustrated. “They don’t give a shit about the people they’re with. They just see them as objects. The whole time we’ve been fucking you’ve been worried about my well-being, protecting me from these assholes because you give a shit- trying to protect me from _yourself _.__ You think they look people in the eye when they fuck them? Tell them how pretty they look?”  
  
“You _do_ look pretty like that,” Clint says in a subdued voice. “Look pretty all the time, fucking hell.”  
  
“You’re proving my point,” Bucky says with a wave of one hand. “There’s a difference between using someone and having a beneficial relationship with them. You’re not them, Clint.”  
  
Clint gives him a look that’s painfully vulnerable. It cements the hope in Bucky’s mind that it isn’t all talk and heat-of-the-moment, that it’s something important and fragile and _good_. “I don’t want to fuck this up.”  
  
“Trust me, you’ll know if you do,” Bucky says dryly. “I’m into stupid possessive morons, not suffering in silence. Making me come so hard I nearly black out is not in the category of fucking up.”  
  
“I think I was into _you_ , not the other way around,” Clint retorts, and Bucky snorts. “We’re okay?”  
  
“More than. That was brilliant,” Bucky agrees. “Did we burn an hour so we can go home and work on it some more?”  
  
Clint pushes up his sleeves on one arm to look at a watch on his wrist. Bucky takes the time to wipe himself off with a paper towel and wrestle his ass back into the leather pants. He leaves the mess on the tiles, in the hopes it’ll upset whatever entitled prick comes in here next. Clint notices and snickers at him, and it’s like the sun coming out. Bucky’s heart feels swollen in his chest, and god, he’s in deep, isn’t he?  
  
“All good, we can go get the girl now,” Clint says, as Bucky steps forward to fix his haphazard collar and tuck in his pants. It’s horrifyingly domestic, but the way Clint’s expression goes a little pleased makes him feel warm inside.  
  
Clint hooks his fingers in Bucky’s belt loop when they exit the bathroom, ignoring the others. The blonde woman is nowhere to be seen, thankfully, but it's not like it matters. Clint would probably murder her before she touched him again. Bucky would bet he looks like a fucking mess right now, but it seems to emphasize Clint’s claim because they only get dubious sideways glances from the vampires this time.  
  
  
  
  
  
The steel door’s still not open when they get down to the lower floor. Bucky bangs on it with his flesh hand, Clint standing back to look around for any other vampires. None of them seem particularly interested in inhabiting this area of the club, however, and he returns a second later, pressing a cool line up against Bucky’s side.    
  
"Hey,” he calls. “It’s been an hour, dickhead. Let’s go."  
  
Bucky’s a little startled at his tone of voice, but the door’s lock clicks open. “Fuck off, Clint,” the voice says. “Don’t you get tired of starting shit?”  
  
“Nope,” Clint says breezily as he pushes the door open, and Bucky doesn't understand why he's talking like that until he looks.  
  
The vampire slouching in the chair has a cigarette in his fingers, smoke curling around his square jaw, but Bucky feels a shock of recognition almost immediately. The auburn hair isn’t familiar, or the derisive curl to his lips, but the eyes are. It’s a combination of that particularly clear shade of blue combined with the wary stare, like he’s seen the rise and fall of too many empires to count. He looks back at Clint, who’s looking exasperated, and then back to the man he's only seen one blurry photo of before. Barney Barton. Clint’s brother.  
  
Barney doesn’t seem impressed by either of them, his gaze sliding over Bucky with displeasure. His eyes go to where Bucky knows there’s still blood smeared on his skin. “Please tell me you’re not here to invite me to a wedding.”  
  
“Shut the fuck up, Barney,” Clint grumbles. “Like I’d invite you.”  
  
“Great, it’s not that. How many times have I told you not to fuck around where I work? You’ve chased me out of two jobs this year already,” Barney complains. “I’m fuckin’ tired, Clint. No one trusts me anymore.”  
  
“No one _should_ trust you. We’re not here for you,” Clint says. “We just want the girl. Carmen? Caramel?”  
  
“Cara,” Bucky corrects quietly, and Barney sighs like they’ve just put the weight of the world on his shoulders.  
  
“Of course you do,” he grumbles. “I’m going to get fired again. Great. Go down the corridor and turn left, there’s an emergency exit no one uses. The girl’s in one of the rooms along the way, I don’t know which.”  
  
He stubs his cigarette into the ashtray by his desk and buries his face in his hands instead. Clint’s expression is somewhere between gratitude and annoyance, and he stands there staring at the side of Barney’s head for a minute. Bucky doesn’t really want to get in the middle of whatever this is, mostly because he has no clue what kind of a relationship this is. Complicated, he’d guess, as he watches Clint sigh and turn around to the corridor Barney’s pointed them to. They start down the corridor and Bucky glances back. Barney hasn't moved.  
  
“Why doesn’t he just come with us?”  
  
“I’ve asked him,” Clint says. “I’ve begged him. He won’t.”

The girl- Cara -comes with no fuss, although she gets a little wide-eyed when she sees Bucky standing there. They wait in the hall while Clint checks the way out, and she regards him with open curiosity. Mostly the bruising starting to fade on his neck. She doesn’t have any marks of her own, he notes silently.  
  
“You’re his pet?” She asks the question without inflection, so he can’t tell where it’s going.  
  
“Not really,” he answers anyway.  
  
She smiles. “You love him.”  
  
It’s such a mundane way of describing the way he feels when he’s around Clint, but it’s still _accurate_ and he feels his face heat up. Cara laughs at him, but it’s light and pleased rather than mocking.  
  
Clint pokes his head around the corner, hair sticking up in wild directions and his clothes rumpled and off-center again. It’s like all his disastrous energy had been bottled up in the last few hours and now it’s escaping into the air again. It feels more natural, even if Bucky appreciates the outfit, and when Clint grins and tips his head towards the door, Bucky goes.  
  
“Mission complete,” Clint announces into the comms. “Think we’re keeping the outfits, though, thanks Tasha.”  
  
Bucky laughs.


End file.
